


tоска

by sophthebi



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Torture, Older Man/Younger Woman, Psychological Torture, Russell doesn't like reader character in the beginning, Swearing, Torture, cause they're stupid, gets themselves in the shit, reader character is an analyst in the cia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophthebi/pseuds/sophthebi
Summary: Decrypting a file you shouldn't have, you unintentionally throw yourself into a conflict you don't belong in.{Reader is a rookie analyst, decrypts a file no one else could, and is then assigned to Russell Adler's team in continuing the hunt for Perseus. Only Perseus isn't the only one being hunted, a ghost from Adler's past not far behind.}
Relationships: Russell Adler/Original Female Characters(s), Russell Adler/Reader, maybe Stitch/Reader?
Comments: 22
Kudos: 51





	1. underdog

**Author's Note:**

> _"No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”_
> 
> ― **Vladimir Nabokov**
> 
> * * *
> 
> HEY!!! I'm back with a whole new Adler fic! This one is scary for me for many reasons, for one, I know fuck all about the CIA and how agencies work lmao  
> So there's a lot of research going on, and unfortunately I'm probably gonna get a lot wrong, so please don't hesitate to correct me! XD
> 
> This first chapter is pretty fluff and light, but I must warn it will get angsty/dark in the next chapters, mentions of Bell. (Bell is dead in this fic.)
> 
> {Also, in my mind, reader character could be considered Neurodivergent, I myself have ASD and so wanted to incorporate that in. All are welcome to this fic however, and I hope reader character can be interpreted in any way that's relatable. Just wanted to give a little something if you wish to follow that headcanon}

**Late November 1983**

* * *

_You shouldn’t be doing this._

_Why are you doing this?_

_Is it worth getting yelled at for? Losing your job?_

_Yes. Well, no … but yes._

You scrutinised the room, through smoke and a variety of nose-itching perfumes and colognes. 

But the smoke… it was getting harder and harder to breathe. 

_God damn smokers._

Heads down and focused, some up with big smiles and laughter, or on occasion, scowls and grimaces or even the rare deadpan look. Pen and pencil scratching on paper. Fast and slow typing. Voices yelling for coffee, or for IT support. The printer taking too long, or their computer not turning on, office chairs swivelling and other voices huffing and heaving. 

Papers and documents being slammed on one another’s desks. Tv screens and clocks on the walls a glaring distraction if you weren’t too careful.

“You finished the operation asshat report?” Someone said dryly, hanging around a desk near to you. 

“Ooh, what report’s that?” A cubicle a few rows down asked, tone sarcasm ridden.

“Only eyes, fucker,” the agent laughed - barely giving a glance to you huddled over your overseer’s desk as he walked by - puffing a cloud of smoke in your direction. Heeled shoes heavy on the ground.

It was a blessing in disguise truthfully, that no one spared attention to you. 

_The new kid on the block. The dorky one. Hard to make conservation with._

Boring work, no insight into cool, badass secrets, the only decently cool thing was using complicated programs to study and write boring reports on aerial imagery from recon technology you could only dream of seeing in person. 

You only saw the tip of the iceberg, so to speak, and at that, from a _great distance._

The most you’d contribute in a day was a report, a review of both NATO and Warsaw Pact occupied geographics through Europe, noting coordinates and sometimes … sometimes, getting a peek at plans for infil and exfil operations for special task forces. 

But, more often than not, you were ranting and raving about software, like Esri’s new information system, asking your supervisor if they could incorporate it for mapping and geospatial data, only to receive vague answers and no sign of your opinions going anywhere. 

_Would it ever change?_

“Where’s Rebecca?” An agent high up in the food chain – you couldn’t remember their name – hovered by you, fortunately not paying attention to what you were doing, either the fact that you were using Rebecca’s computer without her present. 

“She’s on lunchbreak.”

“Shit … Let me know when she gets back?” They were stressed, if you were to judge by the sweat shining on their neck and hands. They stomped away, documents under their arm as they mumbled under their breath. 

_Close call._

_Back to the matter at hand._

Files on her computer, searching through code and passwords that she trusted you with. 

Rebecca had told you it was nothing to worry about, told you to forget the day you’d used her computer to look at geocodes only to come across something encrypted. 

It’d scared you at first, glitching the screen, random codes and words you couldn’t understand spewing out like alien language. Something more akin to a sci-fi film.

Rebecca was onto you like flies on crap, shutting it down. 

You automatically assumed it was eyes only, above your pay grade. But you’d overheard talk, gossip. It was above everyone’s pay grade, and all were told to leave it to the big fish to solve. 

You were no intelligence officer; only assisting Rebecca who was one of the top analytical methodologists in the agency, you specialising in geospatial information. Yet, there was something recognisable about it, something tempting. The universe telling you. 

There were familiar languages, what caught your eye most was a cipher written in the Russian alphabet, meshed with code, foreign numerics and symbols.

Surely someone should have decrypted it by now? 

It looked to be accidentally transmitted from one of the reconnaissance satellites. But why would the Soviets use American recon technology to communicate, or was it bait? Misinformation. Seemed like a waste of time either way.

You scribbled down anything you deemed important, scratching pencil on a ripped piece of paper, untidy and most likely unreadable after you finished jotting everything down. 

Your eyes would wander up, and over at everyone not paying attention to anything but their own desks and private conversations as you wrote and attempted to decipher the file. 

_How much trouble could you get into if caught? Probably enough to not want to get caught._

The more you interpreted, the deeper you went, you managed to translate some code into a password, accessing further into the crypted file. Most of it was reliant on historical figures and events, almost amusing. Whoever ciphered it had a sense of humour. _They also didn’t like Stalin._ Some kind of inside joke within all the gibberish that you were somehow, seemingly at least, making sense of. 

Anti-Soviet, anti-capitalism. _What was their deal?_

_Catpitalists?_ You snorted.

It got to a point where it felt like it was making you walk in circles, a ploy to frustrate whoever had the unfortunate job of decrypting it. Maybe that’s why no one had deciphered it, just some silliness that had somehow made its way into the intelligence database. 

Either way you were having fun working through it, hyper fixated on the computer. 

“Holy shit.” 

You weren’t one to swear in a professional environment, but the words fell from your mouth before you could contain it. 

You didn’t stay at the desk another minute, printing the basemap without actually studying it and sprinting through the hall to the only unoccupied printer. 

Still, no one spared a look at you. 

Again, a perk to being unknown and quiet in a world of loud and busy. 

Once the map slid out from the machine you snatched it away like it was something to be kept in your possession, like if it were to get in anyone else’s hands, the world would cease to exist, for you maybe, at least.

Laying it out on the desk, tracing your fingers along the edges, it finally dawned on you what you were looking at. 

You’d worked on the same satellite imagery not long ago. 

Different geocoding, but before your eyes was imagery of a Soviet militia camp in Uzbekistan. An infil and exfil. And at the edge of your gaze, on Rebecca’s computer screen, was an unfamiliar symbol, an insignia, red and built of numbers.

“What the fuck…” Rebecca mumbled behind your hunched over form.

“Sorry.” Was the only word that came to fruition. 

* * *

You were akin to a lost fawn, wide-eyed and fidgeting in a seat in an office of one of the most highly respected agents in Langley. Rebecca was excluded from the meeting, from the file you decrypted and the imagery you printed. 

_You were all alone_ , and vulnerable to any penalty dished out for accessing off limit’s intelligence. 

You tried to think, tried to put together sensical thoughts but it was all light-speed, and spinning. 

You were gonna lose your job. _Or worse._ Yet, the only thing you could stress over was how disappointed your family would be. 

_Of course you’d be the one cousin to break federal law…_

You took to observing the office. 

It was modest for someone so remarkable. 

Piles upon piles of papers and reports, a cabinet of even more documents. Medals hung in a glass case, certificates and photo frames with who you were soon to be faced with, and who seemed to be his children and wife. 

You hoped that maybe your youth and unthreatening appearance would incline him to be lenient with your mistakes. 

The door behind you creaked open, a conversation that was occurring outside in the hall dying down as he finished it with a harsh finality, papers in one hand, a phone in the other. 

_Jason Hudson._

Your heartbeat spiked, and you spun back to face away from the door, afraid to make eye contact, mumbling out a pathetic sounding ‘sir’. 

“Your supervisor requested I only suspend you, for infringing mandate,” he said simply, not expressing any form of anger or distrust. He come to full view, sitting on the other side of the desk, plopping what looked to be your documentation on the surface with a gentleness you greatly appreciated.

He’d read about you, hopefully it was enough to convince him you weren’t a complete idiot. 

_Even though you really were…_

“What you did prompts a more serious punishment. You do realise you could go to federal prison for what you did.”

You gulped harshly; Hudson noticed it, but you couldn’t tell much behind the sunglasses. 

What was he thinking as he watched you come to an internal understanding of what you’d actually done. 

_You didn’t want to know._

“Sir, with all due respect, why wasn’t it decrypted earlier … The intel on there …” 

Of all the things you could say, you chose the worst option. But you had come this far, and if jail-time was coming regardless, you were gonna dig deeper, one last time. 

“…It’d been sitting in the GIS software for days. It wasn’t that hard to solve.” It was hard to be taken seriously when you had a habit of stuttering and fumbling over words, but for once someone actually listened, not lingering their stare on a clock behind you, or clearing their throat. “Took me less than two hours-”

He smiled… _he actually smiled at you._

“And that’s why you’re here right now.” He opened a folder of your personal information. “You efficiently decrypted a cipher in ‘less than two hours’ none of our top agents could decrypt in ninety-six.”

“You’re kidding … that can’t be true…” you mumbled, leaning over the desk, fingers anxiously tapping on the wood. He ignored your disbelief, continuing to read through your papers. “I mean, it was simple right? Just Russian jokes,” you huffed a dumb sounding laugh, struggling to believe that you could outdo top agents. 

“Well I can tell you with one-hundred percent certainty, that no other analyst in these halls could do what you did. Whether you can believe that or not isn’t my problem.”

“I- what does that even mean? I’m a cartographer, for shit’s sake-” Hudson peered at you through dark frames, you took that as not liking your colourful language, “sorry… for God’s sake.”

He laughed. Quick enough that you wouldn’t be able recall what his laugh sounded like in the near future. 

“This reflects a lack of understanding for Russian humour in our agency then.” He seemed to like one particular page in the folder, pulling it away from the others and bringing it to his face, eyes probably squinting if you were to go by the wrinkles. 

Must have been something very interesting or _very fine print._

“You’re a geography nut?” 

You were slow to register that he was asking you a question. In a daze you responded. “Yeah. In a way, yes sir, I am.” 

He hummed, the beginning of a smile on his mouth. “You graduated at the top of your class.” Warmth grew on your face.

“That’s an exaggeration, I was more like the third best student in that year-”

Hudson’s tough exterior was quickly withdrawing before you, a softness to his face as he chuckled under his breath, unable to hold it back, meeting your eyes. “Your professor mentioned you were knowledgeable in Soviet geography and history.”

“I just find it interesting,” you answered in an explosion of nerves. “I’m not a double agent.” 

You didn’t know what else to do but laugh along with him. Your statement strangely humorous to him.

“I think Russ will like you.”

“Who’s that?” A fractured noise came from your mouth. 

At least you weren’t going to jail … as far as you could tell at least.

* * *

Two days.

 _Two freezing cold days_ when all you wanted to do was sit in a corner, wrapped with a warm blanket, hot cocoa in hand, reading a John le Carrè book. _The irony._

 _Two freezing, tiresome cold days_ of burying your nose into papers and computer, into geospatial data and maps of all kinds and highly confidential reports, that felt like a crime to touch. 

So much cross-referencing, back and forth, _back and forth_. No one else there to help in Hudson’s office, you at the edge of his desk as he did his own thing. 

You wanted to cry, groan childishly for help, your eyes were sore, _get me some coffee. Just send me to federal prison._

Instead, you were under his supervision, working on a report that you were going to help present in some black operation briefing, in front of who were most likely going to be scary people that never wandered the halls of Langley. 

_The monsters of the corporation._

Speaking of monsters and corporations. “Perseus,” you read aloud, catching Hudson’s attention, his pen clicking closed. “It says here Perseus is a person. It’s not a person,” you said, frustrated with the dossier. 

“No, it isn’t. But the rogue Soviet agent that’s the face of it goes by the name Perseus.” 

“Oh…” you began laughing, a small photo of the man clipped to the report. An older photo. Hudson watched you, obviously starting to realise something. “He’s literally the most stereotypical Russian spy ever. Someone wrote him into existence.” 

Hudson scoffed, taking the photo away from you, a warning. _Do your work._

_Maybe he was regretting not sending you to federal prison._

_You were right._ Perseus was no single person, and the CIA, in collaboration with other agencies like MI6, were slowly but surely working on uncovering the ring of allies to the group. Arms dealers, sleeper agents from worldwide agencies, their own. It was frightening, and understandably why Perseus was number one threat, and something the agency had strong feelings about.

As you read through past mission reports that one would have expected to be in a burner bag, like the assassination of a Central American drug dealer with connections to Perseus, a name continued to pop up. It stuck in your mind of webs, trapped in there until you had time to actually size it up. 

“Who’s Russell Adler? Is that Russ?” Your voice was uncertain, and Hudson smiled. 

“Why do you ask?” 

You nervously scratched at the desk, mindful of your nails and Hudson’s stature, the way he studied the onslaught of anxiety in your features. 

“Every black operation to do with Perseus has his name somewhere on it,” a whisper fell. Eyes flickering between the papers and Hudson, you shook your head. “I don’t know if I want to meet him-”

“I can’t argue with your intuition there,” Hudson spoke solemnly, the most genuine you’d seen him since being assigned under his eyes. “He’s not the friendliest man. And quite frankly, he’s insane. But we need him.”

You must have looked absolutely terrified, the man in front of you sighing. 

“You’re going to put me in a room with him? Look at me, I work with computers all day.” A rant was coming on, and authentic or not, Hudson’s weird fatherly energy convinced you to let it out. “I have no authority to give a briefing to these people … They’ll look at me and think, my gosh, is this a joke? I mean, I don’t even know how to give a briefing. Don’t make me do it, I’ll finish the report, but don’t make me do it-”

“-Stop.” Hudson walked to your side, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You were never going to give the briefing.” Relief and serotonin and who knows what else eased the anxiety away. “But I need you there to answer any questions they could and will have. They’ll want to know who intercepted this intel. Especially Russ, our favourite psycho.” Your turn to sigh, nodding your head, gliding over the fact that he referred to one of his co-workers as a psycho. 

He may have been strangely comforting to you, but he was giving an order, and _this was your job now._

“I’ve looked at your previous work, you’re just as essential to this agency as they are.” He reclined onto the desk, a pep talk rearing its head. Great. “Operations the likes of Russell have accomplished, you’ve worked on. You set the foundation. Gotten them in and out.” And even worse, it was working. “And right now, you’ve budged that man’s mission out of a rut. We have key intel on Perseus’ next big move thanks to you. No one is about to look at you funny.”

Although the pep talk worked at the time, got you pumped and managed to push you to finish your written report, _they did look at you funny …_

_You ran late_ , your bus broken down in the snow, cruelly not far from the stop you were supposed hop off at. You ran through ankle-deep cold wet sludge, scarf and beanie nearly lost in the battle, only to find that no taxi would take you. 

You were five-minutes late at that point.

Both _freezing_ and _hot_ from running with all your might to the headquarters, snowflakes caught in your hair and clothes, mud on your good work shoes forcing you swap to dirty converses you kept in your backpack. 

Then there was getting into the Langley which was exceedingly busy, and then the briefing room, going through ID and begging the woman to let you in there, she eventually gave in, chasing you to the door until you forced it open without meaning to, gasping for air. 

“Jesus Christ.” One of the men said under his breath. Heat come to your face immediately, as did apologies over and over falling from your mouth, the door shutting behind you.

 _So much for that pep talk._

“This is the analyst?” The same man questioned Hudson, who stood loomingly at the head of the long table. It gave you time to study the occupants of it, while sorting your own crap out.

Guards stood in the corners of the room, as if they weren’t really there but ghosts of the halls of Langley. Sometimes you wanted to be like them. It’d be interesting to watch it all unfold from that perspective. 

As for the table … _all men, none of them young._

You felt _small_ and _vulnerable_ under their gaze and judgement.

Some of them you were certain were from government, politicians. _You didn’t pay enough attention these days._

A couple of them looked rough enough to be field agents, one of them laughing, hand over his mouth and beard. 

You sat in your chair, attempting to keep your eyes down, knowing that eyes were on you as Hudson explained who you were. 

“She decrypted the intel I’m about to show you … if Woods would like to stop laughing?” 

You looked up at the man with the beard, handsome as he was, he looked a little harsh around the edges, or crazy. Both really, his laughter was contagious however and you smiled, which gifted you the terror of Hudson’s stern eyes on you as well. 

“You’re late. But we haven’t the time to play high school.” 

Sitting up straight, clearing your throat you accidently swayed your gaze to the left of you, feeling something dark and substantial, an intense stare drawing you to _tempt it._

You gawked at the man. _You couldn’t help it._ He wasn’t ashamed of being caught staring; made you want to feel ashamed for catching him.

His eyes, hidden beneath glasses not unlike Hudson, an orange tint, watched you with a curiousness that felt unnecessary, like you were some kind of exotic animal in an environment you shouldn’t be in. 

Lips far too soft for his face graced with scars and aged lumps and bumps, moving to a ‘is it, isn’t it’ scowl. Then it was gone, face turned to watch Hudson, as if you both hadn’t just looked at one another for more than ten seconds, Hudson’s voice drowned out, as was the glaring images of the projector. 

_What was that about?_

“So what? Perseus wants a missile, the same one we’re about to ambush. Seems like chicken feed to me.” Woods turned to look at you, taking you in. He didn’t seem impressed, suspicious even. 

Before you could speak up, Hudson was onto it, and that strangely handsome man was watching you again, made you fidget where you sat. 

His observing felt like a test you didn’t study for. 

“It could be a diversion, but we have solid intel that a team of Perseus operators are going to ambush the convoy, when or how we don’t know, but we have geo-coordinates thanks to the woman you just accused of being a double agent.” 

“It could be Germany all over again. Bait. Perseus knows we’re not letting that convoy get to Afghanistan. He’s counting on it.” The man finally spoke. It took you back, the deepness of it, the authority woven within a gravelly sound.

Hudson discerned your interest, your need to know who this man was… _Was it him?_ Russ- “Russell Adler. One of our top clandestine agents.” Hudson directed at you, a knowing look on his face… 

_The guy you didn’t want to meet_ … Prettier and more stylish than you expected. _His hair so soft and shiny_ …

No craziness to be detected, though like a wild cat or wolf, there was beautiful danger to the way he spoke, turned his head, looked at people, looked at you … like he was looking at you now. 

“What did you tell her? Looks like she’s about to shit herself-”

“-Is this really that pressing? Does it change the way the op will unfold? Just make sure the missile doesn’t get to its destination or into Perseus’ hands.” The government man clarified, interrupting Woods. A bit of pragmatism into the room of uncertainty. “Send in the Omega task force and be done with it.”

Omega task force. You’d heard plenty of rumours of them. Elite JSOC and CIA specialists put together. _Hardcore assassins_. Efficient and clean, best way to deploy military without consequence. 

_You were really above your head._

“Sir, it’s not that simple. Perseus is active again, and more confident than ever. Cheyenne Mountain. Hanover. Now Uzbekistan, he’s got his next best thing planned and I wanna know what that is,” Russell said, warning in his tone, glazed with superficial professionalism. “Last time was a close call. No one wants a repeat of Greenlight.” Hudson looked uncomfortable, annoyed even.

“What’s Greenlight?” Your voice was lighter and softer than you wanted, made you feel even more out of place. Russell’s hands – clasped together in his lap- twitched at the sound of it. 

There was something about you he was struggling to be near … _to adjust to_. Like something within him was confused and unsure of what you were. You knew for a fact you didn’t scare him. But he was studious of everything you did. 

_You didn’t belong in the room,_ and that’s all he noticed. Above your head, above your paygrade, he could sense it, like a predator senses fear on prey. 

“It’s not important. What’s important is we secure the missile and get as much intel from Perseus soldiers as humanly possible. MI6 will be deploying E-squadron and I want you two there.” Hudson gestured to Russell and Woods. “In the case you catch one alive, bring them back home.”

A sort of pain shuddered through Russell. A grimace, only for a second, appearing on his face. Woods seemed to know the meaning of it, giving a death stare to Hudson. 

“Any questions?” 

Projector off, Hudson was looking right at you, as a gesture to the men around the table to go ahead and ask all the questions they needed answers to. They could probably hear your heart, and your leg beneath the table bouncing up and down in unison.

“I’ve got one,” the man you now knew as Woods, asked spinning on his chair to get a good look at you. “How did you get to this intel in the first place?” 

Nothing, absolutely nothing come to mind neither up through your throat. Words stuck, strategy and poise out the window. You peered at Hudson, _please help me._ He wasn’t going to, not this time, sitting down at the head of the table to look through the written briefing. 

“Umm. I- I was looking at geo-codes, came across the file and, um, decided to try and decrypt it.” What you hadn’t expected was a laugh and friendly smile. 

“That’s good shit right there. Some book smart nerd, no offence,” he quickly intervened himself, “managed to do what some uptight asshole couldn’t. I bet you ruffled some feathers.” He reached his hand over to you, in a fist, an amused smirk on his face. 

Awkwardly you imitated the smirk, and met fists with him, a raspy chuckle falling from his throat. The government man looked less than pleased, while Russell, well, he just observed, eyes on you and you only. 

“It’s all well and good to play the underdog, but sometimes, some things are best left to the top dogs.” 

It wasn’t condescending, how Russell spoke to you or looked at you. There was no superiority complex, but there was a skepticism, doubt that you really knew what you were doing, what you did, and how you did it. 

“Come on Adler. Look at her, she doesn’t even have to wear a geeky little vest to seem smart. She can handle it.” Heat came to your face, and the temptation to laugh, really loud put an unwanted internal battle. Lips thinning out as to not make a sound, you peered back and forth. Particularly eyeing Russell’s vest and rolled up shirt. 

The more you admired, the less you wanted to laugh.

Woods and the government man and his friends left the room, leaving just the three of you, Hudson, Russell and yourself in the sound-proof, secure briefing room.

 _It was silent._ Hudson reading still. Russell pulled out a carton of cigarettes, _keeping eye contact,_ slipping one to his mouth and lighting it, pulling away the glasses over his eyes.

You wanted to look away but couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

His skin was warm looking, smooth and strong, lean yes, but there was strength and definition beneath it all. He knew you were looking, returned the favour, though you didn’t know if it was a nice sight or not he was seeing. Blue eyes lingering by your bare neck, jaw, your crooked sweater, the blouse beneath it hanging out in odd places, the collar not folded correctly, then to your smaller hands on the table. 

It wasn’t attraction, no, he stared with analytical eyes. 

_You weren’t cut out for this line of work…_ Your body tensed. 

“If you’re done intimidating her, I’d like to speak privately in my office.” 

That was the last string. The man standing from his seat, stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray, _still not willing to look away from you._

“Nice meeting you.” Was all he said, unaffected and yet not willing to reject the idea that he was in fact trying to scare you … _Or something of that nature._

And then he was gone … Hudson collecting his belongings and you fixating your gaze on where Russell was once sitting. 

“Let’s go.” Hudson cleared the brain fog.

Walking to the door, following like a lost puppy, closely behind Hudson, you lost any professional façade, giving in, “So much for not getting looked at funny.”

Hudson scoffed, stopping in his tracks. “Russ is a professional. He does what has to be done, whatever it takes. To the point of crossing the line. Nothing fazes the bastard.” The thought to interrupt Hudson and ask what any of that had to do with anything come to pass, but he was quick to explain. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here. You arrived late, looking like you barely survived a train wreck, and while you were trying not to combust with anxiety, he was sitting there wondering how he’s going to convince me to not get you involved.” 

“Wait a minute. What do you mean involved?” The both of you left the briefing room, into the dimly lit halls vacated of life and people. “I thought this was it. I can pretend this didn’t happen?” 

Hudson faltered in his determined pace, pulling you to the side. “You’ve proven yourself invaluable, like it or not, we need you to help track Perseus. Even MI6 and BND’s groundwork had sizzled out, there was nothing. Nothing but that file that you, and you alone managed to decrypt.”

 _This couldn’t be happening …_

“And whether Russ likes it or not, he needs you.” Hudson was uncompromisable but you feared Russell Adler would be worse. “I’m placing you on his team as a cryptanalyst. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to sort him out before he disappears into thin air.” 

Eyes wet, chest tight you stood defeated, wanting to turn back time and stop yourself from going on that computer, from doing the impossible. 

_You were now tangled in a web, and the spider was yet to show itself._


	2. bright-eyed & naïve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've discovered something about myself, I lack consistency in my writing lmao XD
> 
> Like, I am once again writing a rom-com, I can't with myself. I'm really trying to write a cool thriller with a sub-plot of semi-romance? **Nope** , gotta go all in haha
> 
> But in all seriousness, I hope everyone enjoys this second chapter. <33
> 
> * * *
> 
> {if you wish to, a song that I really feel suits the softer side of reader character and Russell's dynamic is "another love" by Tom Odell. It doesn't have to be interpreted as only just romance but it can hehehe}

_“We’re all the same, you know, that’s the joke.”_

\- **Chapter 18 “The Spy Who Came in From the Cold”**

* * *

**December 1983**

_They’d captured a Perseus operative_. You weren’t given details, and you were glad for it. 

Since the beginning of all this Perseus business, you hadn’t slept and by chance you did doze off staring at the ceiling fan above, you’d squirm and writhe around in the blankets, sweat glazing skin until finally shooting up from pillows with a pained chest. 

Winter’s coldness couldn’t calm you.

 _You didn’t want this_. 

The universe was chastising you for wanting more _when you weren’t built for more_. Like it knew you’d whine and cry, and desperate for peace, try and hand back this new importance you’d never felt before. 

You didn’t see Rebecca, didn’t sit at your cubicle clouded in smoke and overbearing perfumes and colognes. No clocks on the walls, monitors and radios blaring in a comforting loudness you’d grown so used to. You weren’t left alone, weren’t silent and sightless to the world around you. 

You were beginning to yearn for what once was. 

Hudson wasn’t bluffing when he said he wanted you on the assignment of finding every single thing you could on the Perseus organization. And he wasn’t lying when he said he’d put you in a room with a man that seemingly had no confidence in you or your abilities. 

You did have time to yourself … _for a bit at least_ , while he – Russell Adler - and Woods were in Uzbekistan. 

Put in an abandoned office, a computer, radio, evidence board, filing cabinet, two desks – _you assumed one was for Adler_ \- and empty walls. 

Hudson gave you the option to make it yours, _however that meant_. Checking in on you when he wasn’t busy, going over your research not unlike a professor. 

Did he have confidence in your abilities? _Did anyone?_

Not long before Russell returned to the States, Hudson’s visits declined. 

Rarely seeing anyone, left to your own devices secluded from everyone but chatter on a radio and echoes of voices in rooms and spaces a few many halls away. 

To make it less isolating, you brought belongings from home. A photo of the family dog and cat. Books you’d read before but found comfort in, even just to look at in boredom. Your favorite coffee mug. A cassette player and some mixtapes. 

In due time the office was a mess with your crap, and things got easier to just go along with.

The stereotypical Russian spy was what you fixated on first. 

A dossier given to you on all they knew of him, _nothing really_. An estimated time he may have served in the KGB before going rogue, a single picture of him, his _unfeeling_ stare. 

He was handsome, your fingers tracing the sharpness of his face. Reminded you of the men in that briefing room, reminded you of the men you used to work near, in the cubicles. 

_Just another person_ , another human who’d put themselves in a mess. Didn’t matter in the scheme of things if it was a mess they made or not. 

_Human_.

 _Just human_. 

You tried to remind yourself every day … Making your way into the headquarters, following the paths of halls, and past new and old faces to your new home away from home. 

You could somehow put humanity to a head in a photo, a war criminal, to rumours of whoever they captured in Uzbekistan, to the Soviets, to the CIA. 

But you couldn’t put it to Russell Adler. There wasn’t any to take or see in the way his gaze went through you.

 _Opposites in every way_. 

_Comical almost_.

He was so put together, stern and assured. Hair perfect, blue eyes crisp and awake, clothes with not a wrinkle or stain. Body firm and strong in the way it moved, everything he did was calculated and convoluted, and as a foil to the clandestine operative, _you were everything that wasn’t that_. 

“Sir.” 

He walked in without hesitation, something you were so adjusted to feeling wherever you went in this building. 

Dressed in familiar clothing, warm enough for the outside. Sweater and jeans, not unlike your own attire. His sunglasses were gone, leaving you uneased to his uncovered stare. Leather bag in hand, cigarette in the other, he ignored your whisper of formality. Observing what you’d done with the room. 

Eyeing your books, piled onto one another in unbalanced stacks, most of them were work-related, from code and recon technology, to Russian literature and history. Nothing appeared on his plain expression, unaffected, you watching anxiously from behind your desk as he puffed a cloud of smoke.

Too enamored with his reaction, the smoke didn’t choke you up. Nor the scent of him. It wasn’t so overwhelming, bleeding into the environment effortlessly. 

Then he looked to the empty board… _Oh_.

“Find anything, you put it up there,” he said, meeting your gaze, as if a lecture was about to begin, “doesn’t matter how inconsequential it might seem. Names, dates, poetry.” He smiled for the briefest moment, noticing some leisure books in your pile. 

“Sorry … sir.” 

His back was to you, huddled over his desk, placing the bag onto it with a care you hadn’t expected, grey twirls of smoke twisting from his lips as he looked over his shoulder at you.

“Russell is fine. It’s awkward when you try to be formal.”

That was a sneak peek to what would be the case of your working together.

 _Awkward_. 

From then on, you’d arrive to Langley, to the office to find him smoking, drinking coffee from his own favorite mug and going through documents, clipping all sorts of intel, small and big, on the board. He was always there before you, and always remained when you left for home. 

_Was he ever anywhere else?_

Newspaper clippings, photos, _poetry_ … you put information on the board with shaking fingers, aware of his analyzing stare, your stomach dropping when he’d stand and join your side, going over what you’d gathered. You either got a nod and gruff, or him asking you to look further into it. 

He didn’t speak to you much, only if to ask for tasks like that, to look deeper, _do something better_. Taking turns on the computer, or radio, headphones on listening to chatter from NATO and Warsaw occupied stations. 

Receiving intel from agencies, _more cross-referencing_. 

Him answering phone calls every half-hour. Mentions of a Helen Park, and interrogation with who you assumed to be the operative they captured, or Wood’s friend who’d been missing in action, _Alex something_. 

You tried not to listen in, finding that when you did, he’d look at you in that intimidating way, whether it was intended or not.

Invested in whoever the Perseus leader was, you’d spent every hour given on researching the man. Russell noticed, but didn’t question it.

“For the longest time, everyone thought he was a myth,” you said aloud without thinking, peering up over your desk to across the room.

He contemplated both you and what you said, stubbing out his cigarette. 

“That’s true.” He left his seat, made his way to the board, hand – softer looking, nails clean and trim- gliding over the evidence hung up there. “I crossed paths with him almost two decades ago. He’s hard to find, even harder to catch.”

You nodded silently. Sunlight through open blinds catching on the man’s scars. _Vietnam?_ You didn’t ask. Too afraid, uncertain how to even ask something like that, _overthinking_. 

“It’s um, it’s kind of funny. Reading the old reports … I don’t think he’s the original Perseus.” That seized his attention, tall body twisting in your direction, brows furrowed together under that thick hair. He wanted to hear more. A stutter fell from your lips, nails digging into the surface below. “And the original Perseus might not be a he,” you laughed awkwardly, slipping out a page from the filing cabinet. 

Nervous, like a fawn, curious like one too, you joined Russell at the board with paper in hand. “It would have been the early forties, they … Perseus, was in New York visiting their parents, and if rumour is true, that’s where they first made contact with Morris Cohen. You know of him?” 

“Soviet spy. Him and his wife were arrested by MI5 in ’61,” Russell answered immediately, not taking his eyes off you. You smiled, _quiet_ for a moment. 

For once, since seeing him in the briefing room, you felt as though you and him were on the same wave-length. As if he saw you as an equal, _that you should be there_. 

“They were also working at Los Alamos as a physicist … before they were recruited by the Soviets. It was actually around the same time as another atomic spy, um, what’s his name … Klaus Fuchs,” you explained, finger drifting down the page, body inching closer and closer to Russell in an attempt to show him what you’d found. He didn’t seem to mind, not moving away. “But this man, he’s Russian through and through.” Your hand touched the photo of ‘Perseus’ gentle, _maybe too gentle_. “The real Perseus, whoever they were, are, they’re American. This man is, I, I guess continuing the ideology of ‘Perseus’.”

“What’re you trying to say? It’s not like this information changes anything,” Russell said bluntly. Yet to create distance between you. Eyes staring down into yours, the heat of him bringing you back to reality, a harsh awakening to discomfort of standing so near to another person. “The original or not, Perseus is a threat to the free world. No point in trying to understand how and why, in seeing reason. You can’t with people like him. Take that advice.”

Neck tilted upwards, breath mingling, you huffed, splitting your gaze from his to the ground, to where the points of your shoes were near to meeting his. “I, I know that. I just, maybe we should look more into our own. Inwards. Everyone keeps saying the threat is outside, that all is free and good here, but that’s arrogant to say.” 

“Sound like a communist.” Again, that intimidating stare hit you, you couldn’t do anything but face it with the little courage you had. “Fantastic. All we need is a bright-eyed, naïve college graduate. Fucking Hudson.” The paper was taken from your hand and scrunched in his. 

“I’m not,” you whispered, every instinct in your body asking you to fall apart in his judgement and disappointment… _rejection_. “And even if I was, that doesn’t make me naïve and stupid. If anything, the CPUSA wants better for everyone. Maybe I should be.” 

He glared into you. And finally, you could sense the dislike, his reservations to you being put to work with him. “Maybe you shouldn’t have joined the CIA. Read the room, kid. We’re at war with the Soviets, not a good look to side with them-”

“-I’m not siding with them,” you eventually broke, voice louder than it had ever been in Langley. “I was just trying to help. Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place… I don’t know. It’s been a week, and nothing’s come up. You don’t communicate with me, don’t acknowledge me. I know you don’t want me around, but I am, and I wish you’d make it easier for the both of us! I’m so sick of this!”

You started to cry, the trickle of water down your cheeks, hands quickly rubbing at your eyes and nose. Embarrassment and anger sat and dwelled in the pit of your stomach.

 _It was only a matter of time_. 

_You really truly didn’t belong_ , and he’d clawed it out of you. This is what he wanted. You to admit it was a mistake, that you should never have decrypted that intel, that being the underdog wasn’t worth the pain. 

You should be in your cubicle, doing chores for Rebecca, mindless to everything, overwhelmed by the sounds and smells of monitors and perfumes, heels and ringing phones. 

When you looked at him, his pretty, perfect put together face. There wasn’t pleasure. No satisfaction in making you cry. But still, there was no humanity or compassion for you, nothing could pry that out. He just stared, unaffected as always.

“What in the hell is going on?”

 _It was Hudson_. 

You couldn’t endure being so weak, being at your lowest low at work in front of two of the best agents in DC. Couldn’t bear being reminded how lost you were, how far you were from comfort. You stormed past him, leaving as an argument between the two men broke out.

 _You really would have preferred prison_.

* * *

It was few days before you were called back to work. 

Days of licking your wounds at home, visiting your family for _nurture_ , for _protection_. To pretend you weren’t part of something so serenely terrifying. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have joined the CIA. _Maybe you were naïve and stupid_. 

To think, for the longest time you would do the mundane in a world of chaos. For the longest time you watched from afar giant ice bergs float and creak and crack, and now you were under in the cold, harsh ocean with them. With no hope of breaching the surface ever again.

_Suffocating. Trapped. Cold._

It was a phone call from Hudson, harsher than usual, demanding, not asking. There was no mistake in his tone. _Get to Langley_ , as soon as you could, regardless of where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. 

It was late evening, freezing out and your body beyond tired. But you forced yourself, barely dressed for professionalism, a jumper and sneakers, hair not up or out of your face. _A vision for lethargy_. 

Directed to a wing of Langley you never would have dreamed to be accessible to someone like yourself, you found your way to a briefing room with some familiar, and not so familiar faces. 

Hudson, Woods and … _Russell_ were there. The latter not bothering to look in your direction. 

What caught your attention was a woman and man. The woman was speaking with Hudson and Russell, turtleneck sweater, hair dark and skin light. Accent British. _MI6_. The man was with Woods, golf cap on his head. He was American. At ease and reserved, nodding to acknowledge your presence, warm dark eyes a pleasant distraction. 

“Nerd alert,” Woods whispered, smirking at you. “Been a while, heard grumpy pants over here wasn’t very hospitable.” You didn’t answer, not that you needed to. They knew by the way you walked on eggshells over to them, eyeing Russell as if he were a hungry wolf and you a wounded deer. 

“Don’t worry about Doc. He’s prickly and old, yeah, but don’t feel like you have to hold back. Tell him how it is,” the man said, shaking his head at Russell who had no clue or care to what the three of you were talking about.

“This is Sims, you two should get along great. He’s a nerd himself,” Woods smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes. He was both listening in on what the others were saying and you. “And that’s Park. MI6.”

“What’s going on?” There was worry woven in your voice, and neither of the men went to correct it, to reassure you it was just business as usual. Then your name was called. _Hudson_.

Park smiled. Something about her was so personable, strikingly charismatic in the way she involved you immediately in their conversation. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. MI6 has much gratitude for your intel, it would have been a messy op otherwise.” Her hand was silken and cold in yours as she shook it. 

“It’s not over yet. We just received paramount intelligence from our Perseus friend,” Hudson said, not very excited for what should have been good news. They’d gotten information from their captive … _Skin crawled_ , memories of agents and analysts telling stories of what could happen to you if caught by enemy agencies. _Like tales told to children to not be naughty_. The CIA would be no exception. 

His – Russell’s – presence became more palpable, warm and violent even without his stare. Top of your head reaching just below his chin, _you felt so small_ … 

“There’s heightened activity in Berlin. They’re recruiting assets, both West and East. I’ve authorized a team for safehouse E9. With a bit of luck and the names given we can handle it, send a message to Perseus,” Hudson explained, directing his voice to everyone in the room. 

“What about Mason?” Woods was concerned, it was a strange look for him, but contagious, on edge you waited in just as much anticipation as him. 

“Nothing. We have no intel that points to any connection between Perseus and Mason’s disappearance.”

“That’s bullshit. So what? We sit on our thumbs waiting to hear from him?” 

“He can handle himself, Woods,” Russell rebuked, “Give orders to the Berlin team to keep an ear out. But nothing more than that. He’s not our priority right now.” 

Woods wanted to say more and he didn’t … and you wanted to ask why. 

_It was because it was true_. 

Russell Adler seemed to have a knack for giving the harsh truth without warning. It was so easy to him, you wondered what it was like… It took indifference and courage to be like that, he seemed like someone who was born with both.

“Then what is our priority? What’s the next step?” Sims asked, crossing his arms, glancing between Hudson and Russell … It was only then you realized how close to him you were. 

Deep in your thoughts, you had wandered to him, behind him. Like you were desperate for approval, subconscious not wanting the rejection he so openly gave. Your hair had been touching the arm of his jacket, _the smell of him lingering to you_. 

Again, he hadn’t moved either … And you wanted to stay but didn’t. Stepping away from him altogether, it was cold without his warmth so near. It was only then he looked at you, your sudden change of heart.

You were quick to break contact with that nerve-wracking gaze, fingers fidgeting with the fraying edges of your jumper. 

“There’s Perseus activity at home. South Beach-”

“-Fuckin’ Florida.” Woods scratched at his neck, wandering around the room.

“Our captive gave us a name, Stitch. That name had links with Menedez.” 

_Stitch_. 

Like a dream, it felt familiar but wasn’t … Russell focused his stare on the floor, as if knowing something no one else did.

“A prison convoy will be going through South Beach sometime January and whoever this Stitch is, plans to ambush it and break out an ally. Whether or not its chicken feed, we don’t know. But it needs to be addressed.” Hudson glanced between you and Russell. 

_That wasn’t good_. 

Heart spiking, you glanced around the room for help, for understanding. “Prevention is key here, we don’t want an attack on home turf. Russell, you’ll be taking a team to Miami.”

 _Oh no … No, no_. 

“When do we leave?” Russell didn’t give anything to observe, no reaction. _As expected_.

“Preferably as soon as possible. Park, Sims, Woods …” Hudson looked at you and you knew immediately it wasn’t going to end well.

“What? I can’t go, are you crazy?” Woods was the most surprised by your outburst. 

“I don’t see why you can’t. And this isn’t me asking. You’ll be staying in a safehouse, no harm will come to you. We need intel-”

“-I can’t just leave? What about my family? They’ll want to know everything, what do I tell them?” Hand in hair, cursing under breath, so unlike yourself. You felt the walls crumbling.

“Tell them whatever they want to hear. But we need you for this mission.”

Panic inflicted itself on you, it was overbearing trying to keep it buried. Woods come up to you, playfully hitting your arm. 

“Pretend it’s a holiday. A pretty little beach house, warm weather, Cuban cuisine. A terrorist attack on South Beach. The perfect Christmas getaway. You’ll love it.”

It wasn’t the prison convoy, or Stitch or the beach house that had you cursing. _It was him_. 

You’d already proven you weren’t good enough; _you didn’t want to prove anything else_.

* * *

Lying to family that you wouldn’t be home for Christmas wasn’t nearly as hard as you wished it’d be. 

It was too easy. Guilt didn’t fight alongside trepidation, but you knew it’d come later, wherever in Miami you were headed to. Bag packed with necessities, change of clothes, toiletries, you stared into the hollowness of it, so much room left, but too uncertain of what to bring. 

_What did one take to a CIA safehouse?_

It was an early morning flight, not even two-am when you woke up. Hot shower water struggling to rouse you to a focused awareness, eyes wanting to close every time you opened them. Muscles aching, a craving for sleep weighing you down.

What you hadn’t expected was an Austin Maestro parked at the front of your house. Dark out, only the headlights shimmered through window and door, and who sat in the driver’s seat ….

“How did you know? Wh- what, why?” Voice drowsy, you weren’t so formidable in asking whatever you were trying to ask. Shock had short-circuited your brain as he took the bag from your tired hands, putting it in with his luggage … the same leather bag he brought to Langley. 

_What was in there?_

“Hudson.” Was all Russell said, and it felt like enough. 

_Hudson didn’t think you could catch a flight by yourself?_

The drive to Dulles Airport was quiet, lulling you to a sleep state only to be tapped on the shoulder without care to your exhaustion. “Come on, kid.” 

Dream-state, it didn’t feel real, walking by his side into the airport. _Would you remember this?_ Going through border security, flight ticket in hand that you hadn’t paid for, passport and ID being fished out of a bag, yawning constantly to the point it visibly annoyed Russell, furrowed brows under thick hair. 

_How was he so awake?_

It was a four am flight, or something rather. 

Busy but _peaceful_. The terminal decorated in Christmas.

Tired families and friends and couples sleeping it out on chairs, you had half the heart to copy them, but Russell grabbed you, and unlike earlier, _he was gentle_ …

“Jesus Christ, you wouldn’t wanna be in a crisis.” You heard him say under his breath, guiding you to the gate of your flight. You clutching onto him as to not fall behind, yawning loudly as you did.

“I-I’m not a morning person.”

“Couldn’t tell.” 

Getting onto the plane, sitting into a seat, regardless of how uncomfortable it was, you smiled … stretching your limbs and turning to Russell who sat wide-eyed and awake, unimpressed with your behavior. 

_You knew he’d dislike you more_.

“Thanks for looking after me,” you yawned, cuddling your face into the head-rest behind you, hands clenching into the arm rests, accidently catching his arm, nails grazing his skin … The sensation had you jolt a bit awake but not enough to take away comfort. He was sat upright and again… was unaffected by you in every way. 

_He really didn’t like you_. 

Somewhere in the blur of unconsciousness and wakeness, he’d done and undone your seatbelt for you. A flight attendant placing a warm blanket over your body. You wanted to say you didn’t need it, an intense warmth emanating from his body next to you perfect already. 

You also wanted to argue with him, _why did he get the window seat?_ But then you remembered you were half-asleep, and the flight would be a mere two hours or so. 

The head-rest soon felt comfier, harder yes, but warm and beautifully scented. You rubbed your face into it, smiling.

* * *

Sunlight flared in through the small, circle window, the humming of a plane in flight, passengers talking quietly to one another, children crying. Stirring awake, more alert than ever, you apologized. _Profusely_. Untangling yourself from him, your hands had been wrapped around his arm, hair and head rested on his shoulder, nose stuffed into his sweater, blanket half on you and half on him. 

“How long was I…”

“An hour,” he said without meeting your gaze, staring straight ahead. 

“Another hour to go then… I’ll try not to fall asleep on you again.” 

_You almost missed it_ … the edge of his lips raising to a smile, vanishing as fast as it appeared.


	3. every day above ground is a good day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the length between last update and this one. It's been a pretty hectic past couple of weeks, everything is okay now, but my brother was in hospital for food poisoning lmao he's healthy and much better now <33
> 
> And then I had some health issues of my own, but I am also feeling much better! XD 
> 
> This chapter kinda goes into reader character's history, so it sort of borders on them being an original character with a bit of backstory, though you can take what you want from it and make it yours! <33
> 
> Hope everyone is well, and that you enjoy the 3rd chapter!

“ _It’s hard to find someone to hold your hand_ ,

 _You know it’s good to be tough like me_ ,

 _But I will wait forever_ ,

 _I need someone else._ ”

\- **“Oblivion” Grimes**

* * *

“Feel like I’m in a retirement village,” Woods remarked. 

_He wouldn’t be wrong_. 

South Beach’s residents for the majority, were elderly and retired, living by the beach in wholesome water-front apartments. Winter was warm, the sky blue and clear. Sand golden between toes. Atlantic Ocean breeze. 

_It was beautiful_. 

You’d keep it in mind, for whenever you retired … Old and ready for rest, this was a place you’d love to remain for the remainder of days. “I like it. It’s peaceful,” you said, sitting by Sims who unpacked his belongings, equipment for the make-shift dark-room in the abandoned apartment’s bathroom first to be organised. Woods scoffed, cleaning a handgun …

The sight of it coursed unease through your bones, not used to guns, and certainly not in the way the entire team handled them so efficiently, with mastery and comfortability. 

Sims was also in charge of weaponry, storing away rifles and all kinds of ammunition.

Would they end up using it? _You hoped not_. 

Russell was the first and only person to notice your apprehension. “No need to be afraid. The chances we come into contact with hostiles is unlikely,” he said simply, watching carefully as you went through newspapers and flyers from the past few days, conflicted between focusing on that task and nervously eyeing the weapons Sims was systematizing. 

“But not impossible.” Woods couldn’t help himself, a smirk on his face, teasing glimmer in his eyes. 

“There’s no chatter this side of town.” Helen Park was busy working with the ‘music box’, something Woods called the numbers station to be ritzy. Headphones around her neck, sunglasses resting on the top of her head, cigarette in mouth. “I think we’re in the clear … for now. Finding anything interesting in those flyers?” 

“Nope … Just Christmas and tourism related. No ciphers,” you answered, giving up on the pile of papers that held no significance. Huffing air, standing from your seat and observing the apartment…

Paint was peeling from the walls and ceiling, empty of furniture and life and sunlight. Buzzing electrics. Flickering bulbs. The building had been abandoned for a while, commonplace in South Beach. With a bit of work, it could be liveable, though you didn’t like the smells, dust accumulating in the air. _Stale and hollow_. 

Days went by and fell into a routine. Early morning to late night in the safehouse. Meeting the team in the quickly brightening apartment in a quiet part of the beach city. Drinking plenty of coffee, following Russell around as if he were some kind of conduit of Hudson. _He didn’t enjoy it_. Woods bringing all kinds of foods back on his outings, sad memories passing Helen’s face every time he did … You wanted to learn more about them, _just too afraid to actually try_. 

While waiting for Sims to install the computer and finish up with the dark room, you were assigned with going over old dossiers, reading through newspapers and handouts. 

Nothing was turning up… Frustration built, amongst everyone. Russell on the phone to Hudson most of the time, questioning whether it was worth hunkering down for. 

“There’s this movie I saw, filmed here. Drugs and shit. Come on, what was that movie … uhh, Al Pacino was in it. It’s new,” Woods started, reclined in a chair legs in another, deep in thought. 

Everyone had given themselves a self-appointed break, sitting around doing nothing but staring at the ground or each other, Sims and Woods keeping it upbeat, Helen and Russell having words, you just being… _you_. 

“Oh yeah, I think I know what you’re talking about... It’s got Pfeiffer in it too right?” 

Helen was oblivious to the conversation between Woods and Sims, sipping at coffee instead. Russell, however, was paying close attention, the smallest of smiles on his mouth, smoke between his teeth, sat in a reversed chair, arm and back muscles twitching every time he took a swig. “Scarface,” he solved the mystery for them, exhaling a puff of smoke. 

“That’s the one … didn’t take you for a film connoisseur, Doc.” Sims had a knack for teasing Russell, and calling him Doc. _Another thing to add to his enigma_ … 

“All I have in this world is my balls and my word …” a snort fell from your nose as Woods shot up from his seat, a sudden change of inflection in his voice. “And I don’t break ‘em for no one.” Laughter erupted in the safehouse, the loudest coming from you.

Face warm and eyes teary from uncontrollable laughter and snorts, you found yourself catching Russell chuckling, and not at Woods … but you. _It made you laugh harder_ , stomach hurting. 

“That was the worst impression I’ve ever seen.” Helen although unimpressed, was trying hard not to smile. 

It was equally terrible and good. 

“Frank Pacino, at your service.” 

It was moments like that, that kept the spirits up, just in time for Christmas. No one missed skipping out on the holiday, but it was nice to have comradery. No longer did you feel like you were stepping on eggshells. Now that it wasn’t just you and Russell in a cramped office back in Langley, you felt free, taste of salt and brine on your tongue so comforting. 

Evening walks on the beach, dressed in jean shorts and a graphic shirt, it began to feel like a holiday, _but it wasn’t_ … no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself. 

When things began to fall into place, signs of Perseus in paradise, it was hard to ground yourself into reality, a cold awakening to what was right under your nose.

* * *

**January 1984**

“It’s too risky to make contact, we need to keep distance for now. Watch and learn their routine. Where they eat, where they sleep, all of it.” 

“Lovely, and here I thought I’d be back in London for New Year’s.”

Through zealous reading, listening, staking out, the team had discovered activity in South Beach. At least four people hiding out in one of the many abandoned buildings, not unlike Russell’s team, _not unlike you_ … 

Helen had intercepted their communications, briefly, they caught on and all chatter went quiet. “So it’s for real. They’re really gonna attack on American soil, out in the open.” Sims crunched his golf-cap, looking to distract himself. 

“Looks like it. There’s more of em’ out there, and we need to know how many. That convoy is planned to pass through on the 17th, Hudson made contact with the FBI and they’re not budging,” Russell briefed the team, a road map of South Beach on the evidence board. Russell looked to you … _it’s your turn_. 

The team had been allowed information on the prisoners being transported, one of them a prominent drug lord. Friend of Menendez. _That was the one_. Why Perseus would have ties with drug trafficking, you had no clue… Heart beating hard, hands tremoring.

 _Above your head_ … 

Your voice felt distant as you explained who the target was, dissonance between body and thoughts. Heat rushing through you, blood pumping loud and distractingly in your ears. “I, I um … Hudson thinks Stitch, whoever they are, may be doing this off Perseus’ radar, as a favour for Menendez … only thing is, he’s dead. I guess the only thing that makes sense is Stitch is making use of their trade routes.” You cleared your throat, highly aware of how unsettled you appeared. 

No one seemed to care, to your advantage. Russell taking over again. 

_Paranoia. Bait. Another distraction_.

Barely leaving the safe house, no longer taking walks on the beach, forgetting why you were there in the first place, the team put all their energy into keeping track of where and how the Perseus agents operated. 

They rarely left their secured territory, and when they did, it was impossible to trace, masters of espionage. Time was running out, the date was looming closer and closer.

“Adler, we’re wasting precious time. None of my assets have unearthed anything substantial. It’s silent out there-”

“What are you suggesting, Park? We go into the lion’s den and ask them ourselves? We go in, they’ll sniff us out and that’s our op blown.” 

It was late night, Sims and Woods back at their hotel getting shut eye. You wished to be doing the same, but Hudson asked that you stick with Russell … For whatever stupid reasoning, an order was an order. And Russell wasn’t leaving any time soon.

You took to eavesdropping on one of his and Park’s many quarrels over how the operation should be proceeding. Sitting outside the dark room, head in hand, eyes dropping over, their voices irritated.

“They know we’re here. I don’t see the harm in provoking the hornet’s nest. At least then we can figure out who we’re dealing with.”

Silence emanated from the room. A lighter clicking, and small flame crackling into existence, a harsh intake of air. “They’re not stupid. You think they’ll fall for it? I don’t. Besides, there’s no doubt in my mind we’ve made contact with them already. They know our faces.”

Helen considered him. You hoped then it meant the conversation had ended and Russell could chaperone you to the hotel… Begged for it. Brain muddled and body sore.

“Send in who they don’t know… The girl, she’s never been out in the field. She’s young, unassuming.”

 _No, no, no_. Sleep wasn’t a problem anymore. But you held onto hope, never in his right mind would Russell agree to it. There was nothing to support an idea like it. _You, espionage_? Out of the question. 

“Maybe.” 

_Fuck_.

“We’re running out of options Adler. In and out. A few photos. Do you think she’s capable?” 

_No_.

“Doesn’t matter what I think. This is the only thing we’ve got at the moment. Like you said, in and out. No need for theatrics, snap some photos, get up close and personal without notice and slip away.”

“Good. I suspect she’ll need convincing-”

“-damn right I will-” You couldn’t hold back, storming into the dark room, straight into a group of boxes… Stumbling and ready to catch yourself in a painful impact with cracked tiles, only to collapse into a cloud of smoke and warm body, hands on waist, head stuffed into a firm chest. 

Apologies flowed without thought as if you hadn’t been listening in on them or launched into an uncharacteristic attack mode. 

Russell’s hands on your waist, you peeled them away quickly, dusting yourself off. Moving away just as fast. “Hudson can’t trust me to get on a plane by myself. He’s not going to let me go undercover.”

“It’s a need to know plan. He doesn’t.” 

There was no point in arguing, you were on thin ice with Russell, you didn’t want the same predicament with the rest of the team.

 _Espionage it was_.

* * *

A method you’d grown to use in the week you’d been in Miami, was to persuade yourself you were in fact, a tourist yearning for a warm holiday, naïve and stupid looking, in huge sunglasses unnaturally framing your face, straw hat on head, flip flops squeaking as you walked through Ocean Drive. 

Russell had followed you, the others back at base listening in, mic taped under your breasts. Helen had done it for you, her fingers had been cold on your skin and ribs… You tried to think of everything but where you were and where you were going. 

“You okay?” It was Sims, calm voice in your earpiece. Rare of him to ask things like it in the time you’d been around him, but it must have been the heaviness of your breath and beating of your heart. You hummed in a way that said both no and yes, but mostly no. 

“You’re almost there, kid. Keep taking pictures, keep moving. It’ll look less suspicious for when you start pointing the camera at them.” _Sarcasm_.   
Why did he send you out in the first place?

 _Why did he have to think so little of you_? 

As if you’d point the camera at literal terrorists… the problem was, you didn’t know who was or wasn’t the Perseus operatives, if they’d left their own safehouse or not. _You didn’t know anything_ , and Russell had let you off your leash into the wild … A stupid, naïve geography graduate, playing spy … He not far behind, securing your safety. Waiting for you to screw up probably. You hated the idea of what he must have seen.

One of Helen’s assets had told her of shady looking people, foreigners hanging around Art Deco restaurants and bars. You kept an eye out, _whatever shady looking people looked like_. You assumed they’d be smoking and leering in a dark corner, a camera of their own, hands to their ear. 

_There was none of that_. 

Fortunately for you, it was easy to be enraptured by the environment, to seem like a tourist for the mere fact that you were in a way, a tourist. Never having been to Miami or seen Art Deco architecture. It was so vibrant and colourful … You took photos without break.

The prison transport would be passing through here, to think such a lovely place could become a bloodbath and no one had a clue.

Russell was somewhere not far, and you had to stop yourself from actively searching for both him, and the Perseus operatives. _Look less suspicious_ …

Making your way past couples and families, unknowing to the horrors, the threat of war right in front of them, it felt like committing a crime. Wrong. _Pretending to be something you’re not_. 

You should have been back home, fired … _No, focus_.

“I’ll have a soda, thanks.” 

Day shifted to synthetic darkness as you walked into the bar, fluorescent blues and pinks and purples blinking over your body, hunched over on a stool, playing with the Canon camera Sims had given you, and your sunglasses. The wait for your drink wasn’t long, most of the population out on the beach.

Scanning the room, sipping at the refreshing drink, gently bobbing your head to the music. 

“See anything yet?”

Nope- _Oh_ … 

A woman, formidable in her stature watched you without hesitation. 

You tried to tell yourself she wasn’t really looking at you, past you maybe. In a daze or drunk… but she was sober, grave in the way her gaze pierced into you. To your ear that you hadn’t touched, having been told not to in the very case someone was watching you. 

The lights probed her face, striking and unforgettable, metal glittering on her chest … a necklace. Hand flinching at the camera, itching to grab it, snap a picture and run. 

Red… Symbols… Rebecca’s computer screen…

Insignia. 

“Hey- there’s interfe- we’re losing sign-” Sims voice cut out, coincided with the woman putting something away, into her jean pocket, steel expression never leaving as she stood from her seat, wandering carelessly out the back exit. 

“Shit.” 

Throwing cash to the bartender, more than the unfinished drink deserved, you followed … 

‘ _There lived a certain man_

 _in Russia long ago_.’ 

Boney m played on the bar’s stereo, vibrating into your bones. _Dangerously poetic_.

 _Stupid_. Russell would kill you if she didn’t. Trap. She’s baiting you. _Your cover blown_.

Mind somewhere else, soul numb and incautious. Dissociating. Panic having done its damage. The back door erupted bright light as you opened it, stepping into the alley way only to feel the sharpness of someone’s knuckles hitting your cheek, knocking you to the ground, camera falling with you, broken.

The woman’s heels in your line of sight, as were many others … 

“Deer in headlights.” 

A man, Russian... Central accent, hauntingly deep, and something to fear. 

Visions of sitting in your parent’s car, during a road trip as a child, having to turn the headlights off, otherwise the deer remained frozen, unmoving and blinded and disorientated. 

There was always something so disturbing about that image. Exactly how you felt on the dirty concrete, too afraid to move. 

_Move. You have to move_.

Heavy footsteps loomed closer to your collapsed and struggling body, clawing to get back up, not willing to meet eyes with the man coming towards you.

Large hand, though not rough, grabbed at your bicep, lifting you to a tall, muscled body without effort, as if you were a ragdoll.

‘ _He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow_.’

Coagulated blood on his fingers, grasping your chin, your neck, your hair … ripping the earpiece from your head, pressing you close to keep you from running, from fighting… as if you could stand a chance. Your hands pressing into his abdomen… _Suffocating_.

“My expectations were low. But this,” the man laughed, warmth and sound reverberating into your chest from his, “this is sad. How does it feel to be a throw-away?” 

Fingers scratching into his shirt, digging deep to grasp at him and push or pull. Anything. There was nothing threatening in your actions, he only held you closer … Tangled in his arms, twisting you around, back into his chest, his palm pressed on your stomach, mouth by your ear. The on-watchers, that woman, and others donned in full-head masks, only their eyes visible, they observed in silence. Listening to him speak.

“You can leave. Search the area, she won’t be alone. I’ll deal with her.” Breath hitched, snivelling like a child, wiggling in his grip. He spoke in Russian, whether he knew you could understand him or not, he didn’t care … but you could, and you wish you didn’t at all. 

A hand seized your throat, not tight enough to bruise or prevent you from breathing, but a weight to be cautious of. “I should break you.” He cast you into the hard wall, head cracking into it, emanating swarms of agony down your neck, whines slipping from your mouth. “But it’d be too easy. People like you only need to bend a little.” 

A military knife was unsheathed from his hip, its sharp edge pressed into your jugular. A phantom pain, feeling as if he’d rutted the knife into your neck already. 

_Torture_ … You were going to break. Face twisting into fear and sadness, tears fell, sticky and wet, his thumb rubbing them away, sliding down your cheekbone to your jaw, contemplating. Staring through you, inside as if he could see your thoughts.

Blue eye lessened in intensity, the knife slipping away, but held to your body. It was then you noticed the left eye, milky white and scarred … _blind_. 

“You’re no spy,” he spoke, English flowing from his tongue fluently and quiet. “Whoever sent you was counting on your cover being blown. An object to be rid of.” It was cruel, sadistic in his tone and gaze. It churned your stomach.

What if this was the plan? You as bait? _You were nothing_. 

A sob came from you and he tutted, caressing hair from your eyes. You couldn’t look him in the eye, ashamed and naked. Stripped of defence and armour. He could see all, _a stupid, naïve child_ , in over their head. 

You took to calming your breathing, analysing everything about the man. The blood and tattoos and scars. His mouth, his nose. He noticed, stepping closer.

“I know what it’s like to be discarded. The KGB, CIA … though neither would admit it, they are the same. You’re a clog to be overused and broken down. Small and unnoticed.” 

Unnerving, the temptation in his voice, woven inside you. _It wasn’t a lie_. He was openly confusing you, an attempt of convincing you to change sides? It wouldn’t work, you’d give them nothing, and yet, the way he seemed to understand… harsh but curious. 

_You really did seem so weak_.

“You could become so much more, free from those constraints. Tell me who you’re here with, where they are. Show them you’re not an object to be used so recklessly.”

There was nothing pleasing in the thought. He saw your rejection before you could speak it.

“No. I won’t. I’m not going to-” you said, tears falling onto your tongue, shaking your head in refusal. 

He’d kill you. It was simple. You were no use now. _Weak but stubborn_. 

His warmth abandoned your body just as his soldiers returned. They had found nothing, no one …

 _Where was Russell_? You needed him, afraid and vulnerable and hurt. The pain in your head and cheek throbbing. 

“The new world will eat you whole, little deer.” 

They left you. Bruised and shuddering. Death was so near. You slid down the wall, camera broken at your feet, huddling into yourself, body tremoring with sobs.

* * *

The taste of sea and brine hung on your tongue. The slowly incoming tide of the North Atlantic Ocean lingered on the sand, crashing softly, bringing the breeze along with it. 

The beaches weren’t empty, but close to it. You sat secluded in your own little area, huddled and unsure of what to think, or feel, or do. 

_You could have died_ … 

They could still be watching, you knew it was a possibility but yet, you didn’t feel their gaze, their presence, his presence. They were gone. You tried to tell yourself over and over. 

_It was over_. 

Whatever they did next, whether they come across Russell or the others. _You had no control_. The others might have thought you dead anyway, contact diminished. All you could do was wait and watch the night sky, listen to passing traffic and laughing people on the beach, music and restaurants. Fairy lights and palm trees rustling with the wind. 

You’d nearly died, and you nearly if not severely impaired the operation you shouldn’t have been sent on. 

Hudson would regret it. You’d let him know. It was over, this was all over. _No more_. 

Footsteps in the sand had you jolting, prepared for a hand stained in blood to grab your arm and pull you up. 

It wasn’t the man with the ghostly eye. “We’ve been searching for you for hours.”

He was irritated more than anything. 

Russell stood behind you, but you kept him waiting, not wanting to stand, to explain, to do anything but watch the ocean and comfort yourself in the fact that you’d leave this all behind. 

“Are you even listening? You could have sabotaged everything. Hudson was about to get on a plane… We thought you’d been taken, killed – hey!” 

You stormed off, further from him and towards the water, shaking your head. He trailed closely behind. A hand ghosted your arm and you twisted at the touch. 

_Head slamming in that wall, knife on your neck_. 

It was a strange, sudden anxiety that had you snatching his hand away, it was then his face softened. His lips parting and an emotion you’d never witnessed on him before.

Moonlight caught the bruise growing on your cheek, your eye sore to touch, to blink, to even think about. 

“What happened?” He was by your side in a stride, hands uncharacteristically worrying your body, fingers pressing hair away, gliding by the wound, your neck. It was then and there you wanted to cry and yell. 

“Who fuckin’ did that? Tell me.”

Your fingers circled his wrist, not wanting to pull away his nudging and stroking. “A Perseus agent. I don’t know who he was … I thought he was going to kill me. Torture me -” Concern for you quickly become concern for everyone, for the both of you. His eyes fast as lightning, observing the world around you. 

“Did you tell him anything?”

Heart hurting as he seemed to forget your fear, your bruised face. “No. Nothing.”

Shock and suspicion clouded his gaze on you. He didn’t believe you? Couldn’t believe the fact you’d lived to tell the tale. 

“I didn’t say anything. There were others but they left looking for you. He just …” you wanted to ask him if it was true … if you were sent as bait, but couldn’t find the courage to do it. Russell showed no sign of knowing anything, _but with absolute certainty, you knew he was a good liar_. “He told me I was weak and left me. You didn’t see them? They were at the bar, in the backway… I-I don’t know where they went after that-”

“I didn’t see anyone.” He was angry, not with you. The way he walked away and circled in one spot, cussing under his breath proving that this might have been above him too. “Fuck. This whole op was a mistake. Fucking Hudson.”

An anger of your own built strongly. “I don’t get it. You’re supposed to be the best and you’ve seen nothing. Heard nothing. Done nothing. They were onto me as soon as I walked in that bar. I could have died! Where were you when I needed you? You shouldn’t have sent me out there-”

“-you shouldn’t be here in the first place! But you are, and you need to grow up. You dug your own grave, now lay in it. This is what we do, we risk our lives, we cross the line, we do whatever it takes. You can’t let this shit happen, because it won’t just be you that gets hurt. Don’t you understand?”

It hurt to cry, the bruise pounding with pain at every tear that slid, that left your duct. But you couldn’t stop, collapsing messily into the sand below. “Don’t do that. Get up. Kid, get up.” 

You shut his voice out, quivering with hiccups of cries. Trying to hold it down. “Please. We need to get back to the team. Our flight is tomorrow morning. You’re going home.” It was his attempt at calming you, comforting you.

 _Home_. 

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll talk to Hudson. You don’t belong in this.” 

The more he reasoned, the less anger ravaged your spirit, and the more shame rose in your heart. “Back to a desk knowing all of this? It won’t feel right,” you admitted. The weight of all this knowledge, this true danger you weren’t aware of, not that long ago. “I-I can’t go back. You’re right, I made my grave. I know too much.” 

It was then Russell sank to your level, sat in the sand by your side, dressed in a simple shirt and pants. He looked so normal but then you met his gaze. There was nothing normal about him, or about you anymore.

“How do you do this? I… I don’t understand. You’re so sure of everything. You made your mind up about me in that briefing room, you could see straight through me.”

He was watching you, it was a rare occurrence for Russell to watch and listen, actually listen to you. Instead of planning his next move, how he’d respond, there was a gap between answers. _Thoughtful_. 

“You must think I think very low of you?”

You couldn’t help but be honest. Nodding your head, wiping at quickly drying tears. If he didn’t completely dislike you, he at least held no high regard, no professional respect, you didn’t have anything to give in return. 

“I don’t,” he said, not turning away from you. “It’s not about that. I know I’m harsh and unpleasant, believe me, but this is a dangerous line of work. This work is harsh and cruel. Not everyone is capable-”

“-you don’t have to be so unpleasant all the time,” you cut in. Tilting your head as to match his gaze, chin up, fingers grasping at the grains of sand. “You’re not so special in that regard.” Maybe it was the dark, the way it was so quiet and peaceful and just the two of you, but you felt the strength to argue, skin sticky from sweat and salty tears. 

So many people in that building were unpleasant without reason. It was hectic, and unapologetic. No one was kind, _not really_.

“Maybe you should work somewhere else.”

You scoffed. 

He was right, it was so simple. You could work literally anywhere else. Journalism. Work as a GIS consultant somewhere. Librarian. Anything. But no, _you took the difficult path_. 

“How’d you even come to working for the CIA?” His question was genuine, he was interested. Maybe trying to take your mind off of things, but it was honest. One brow raised, blue eyes waiting. _It was endearing_. Heat came to your face, forcing your eyes away from him. 

“I-it was recommendation. One of my professors was friends with Rebecca – she's an analytical methodologist – it got me an interview. I didn’t actually think I’d get in. It was annoying too … lie detector, everyone I knew was contacted.” Russell hummed, probably having gone through the same process, maybe an even worse one.

“It doesn’t hurt that you’re informed in Soviet history. You seem to read and understand Russian quite well too.” It wasn’t threatening, but there was accusation in his voice, like he knew there was more to you then he first believed. 

_No one ever noticed things like that_ Not your professors, or friends … but Russell, there was a small smile on his face, as if he dug something up about you in his free time, or the most probable reason, he could read you better than you liked. 

You ducked your head, unable to hold his stare. 

“My grandmother was a white émigré.” Russell was engrossed immediately. It was something you never spoke much of, even amongst family, especially now. The words felt like a dream. Like you yourself had not known, had forgotten it, made it out to be insignificant. “She wasn’t a monarchist though,” you laughed, remembering her trashing both the Soviet regime and Imperialism at weird moments during family gatherings. “She was a teacher, history teacher. I um, I think she was my age, early-twenties- when she left Russia for Sweden.” 

Your grandmother was a grand storyteller, but it’d felt like forever since you’d been with the late woman. It was hard to memorise her words, and speech-pattern. Her compassion. Her experiences that she seemed to relive so thoughtfully. It used to feel so personal, not as big as it really was. You'd trained yourself to be unaffected. But it all seemed to unravel on the beach with Russell. It might have been the emotional stress. Or the fact that someone cared to ask. 

“She was there till a few years after the second world war. She took in and supported Jewish refugees. She’d seen so much, done so much. She moved to the States, met my grandfather and had my dad, and then that’s it. She taught me Russian, bits of Swedish though I can barely remember it,” you hushed. Russell was considerate of you, soft and open-eared. It was a strange feeling. For once you were the interesting one. 

You could talk so much more of her. That she was obsessed with cinema, and Robert Redford who you were quickly recognising in the features of Russell. _She would have loved him_.

That your blood ran so far as back to the Byzantine Empire. That she let all that patriotism go, in search of something better. For everyone. She was a genuinely good person and impacted so many lives.

That she was the biggest reason as to why you joined the CIA, _hoping you could do something_ … 

Only you ended up at a desk job, _feeling as if you barely existed_.

“Is your grandmother still alive?” 

“No. She passed a few years ago.” 

There was a comforting silence then. Only waves and stars. How long had you both been sitting there? 

_And why were you suddenly so okay with everything_? 

“I wish I had a story to beat that, kid. I had no idea… you’re very unassuming.” He was smiling, as if feeling the very same feeling in your stomach. _A calm_. “My ex-wife was a teacher. She taught physics.”

Your heart softened at his unexpected vulnerability. Like the two of you were getting somewhere, reaching a comradery that you hadn’t felt yet with him. You had felt it with the others, _just not him_. 

“She must be smart,” you said dumbly, Russell laughing. 

“Too smart for me, that’s for sure.” 

It took a near death experience to learn that Russell wasn’t so up his own ass, and that you weren’t a complete blubbering mess, and that the two of you could hold a conversation. It was the most real you felt since forever.

* * *

The bruise eventually healed to a light colour that no one could notice. Langley was its same self, Hudson surprisingly didn’t tell you you were off the Perseus case, in fact, the ordeal seemed to solidify his belief in your abilities and knowledge.   
Strange as it was to admit, you missed Russell. After that night, the draw towards him had a name and understanding. The need to be close wasn’t so perplexing, there was something about him that made you happy and strong and angry and alive. 

Back in the office, all felt as if you were in the right place in your life.

Until on a tv monitor was the image of a beach city on fire. 

Until Russell and Woods were sent to Berlin, a safehouse attacked by Stitch. 

Until Hudson sent you to New Jersey to meet with Russell and his team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have a Russian grandmother, everyone. XD 
> 
> You're welcome haha

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <33


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